Here is a thread dedicated to my work as a writer. This thread will mostly be filled with my poems which vary in theme but I try to fashion myself after my favourite poet T.S Eliot, who I believed captured human nature in his words. I aspire to do the same. Please feel free wo citique and review my work. However, simply saying "I like it" is not good enough, as a writer I must grow and develop so I beg you readers to give me a reason as to why or why not you liked the poem. To start off I shall provide you with one of my personal favourties.
These Are The Boring Bits
Call life what you will, A joke, A curse, A gift, An adventure. Take from it what you will, Joy, Sorrow, Love, Hate. Lose yourself in it Find your purpose Or, Find nothing at all.
A man asked, "What is the meaning of life?" A woman told him, "Whatever you make it to be." A child asked, "Is god real?" A parent told them, "Only you can decide."
Personal opinion is what we use to guide us, The opinions of others are what lose us. We can never be certain That we are certain of anything Because of change, And because things stay the same. What makes sense one day, Will confuse us another, And so it goes on. People tell others to: Get in line, Grow up, Get our lives straight, Who told these people these things? And why tell us the things that broke them?
Is it human nature to be unhappy?
Two men sit on a bench, In a park, Under a tree. They talk about family and friends They talk about work and dreams. One man says, "It is a waste of time to dream," The other says, "Yes, but to have dreams is not." Dreams are what the world is made of Bad dreams, Good dreams, Lost dreams.
Hope is never far off, As the old die, The young are born, The young grow, They become old, The old die. But while they are young, They change the world. Some for the better, Others for the worse.
Inspiration is a dream.
The only inspiration in life is life: What to do? How to do it? Can we change the world? How to change the world? Is there purpose? Are we real? Or a figment of imagination? All questions do not need answers.
Call life what you will, These are the boring bits.
You should go Emily Dickinson on everyone, become a recluse, and finish it in two weeks. You'll have to tell me when you're done, so I can look out for it in the stores.
You should go Emily Dickinson on everyone, become a recluse, and finish it in two weeks. You'll have to tell me when you're done, so I can look out for it in the stores.
Universoty prevents this. As for publishing, that may take years. Just because I finish the book doesn't mean agents will take it up. Even if they do it doesn't mean it'll get published. Fun fact, Canada hates fantasy
Oh, ANNOUNCEMENT! I have finally finished my thrid chapter of my novel! Also, my novel can be found on inkpop under the username: wolf1991. Please support this poor writer in his time of need!
Who will save me When I'm so far gone That I have lost all light And there is no dawn. No glorious glow Above horizon's blade To see me through And see me safe. What shall I do Now that they've all Turned away. And each Has gone, their own Sperperate way.
Caged. Pacing. Unsubtle truth of forgotten youth. What have you? Speak naught of dreams and memory. Troubled minds. Hate and love, conjoined to each. Didn't see. This end of ends; the will that bends. What have you? Nothing.
From the bridge the city's skyline looked like something from a Christmas card.
Dear Mom, I made it.
He smiled bitterly. Yeah, he had made it, but at what cost? And what had he found here? Not much. This was suppose to have been a new start. An escape from what had come before, and yet he found nothing had changed. It had all been for nothing. A pointless waste of time, effort and money. And now, he found himself standing alone, looking out at the city that was supposed to have been his everything, only to have shattered his hopes and dreams.
Just like everything else.
He took a step onto the lower rung of the guardrail. As he lifted his other foot up, standing firmly on the metal rain it began to snow. He looked up. Fat, crisp flakes obscured his glasses. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opening them, he lifted himself into a sitting position on the top of the guardrail.
I used to believe I could do anything.
He dropped his legs down, now standing on the opposite site, below him the river wound like some endless fisure in the earth.
How fitting.
He closed his eyes and slowly spun. No need to look at what was to come. He opened them for one last look at the empty streets and dark alleyways. So far away from that gleaming city of hope.
And there she was. Standing across from him, too terrified to speak, the image of what he was doing paralyzing her every instinct. Her fear plain writ on her face, that if she spoke he'd fall. He felt tears prick his eyes, obscuring his vision even further than it had been with snow covered glasses. She took a timid step forward. Then ran.
She grasped his arms, her hands were like iron manacles. She pulled at him, holding him tighter. Their lips touched, lightly, softly. A mere moment, but it was enough.
What have I done?
Shaking he climbed back over the rail with her help. There he held her, consoling her, whispering every reassurance and apology he could muster.
I had no idea...
In the glow of the street lights they embraced, each supporting the other from their own sorrow.
To have lost this...
After some time he titled her head to look into her eyes. She wiped his glasses clean.
I'm sorry.
Together they walked away from the bridge. Back to their hopes and dreams.
Who will save me When I'm so far gone That I have lost all light And there is no dawn. No glorious glow Above horizon's blade To see me through And see me safe. What shall I do Now that they've all Turned away. And each Has gone, their own Sperperate way.
One spelling error, but beautiful nonetheless. It gives off a hopeless feel, and its really relatable.
Caged. Pacing. Unsubtle truth of forgotten youth. What have you? Speak naught of dreams and memory. Troubled minds. Hate and love, conjoined to each. Didn't see. This end of ends; the will that bends. What have you? Nothing.
This is nice, but not one of my favorites. I like the internal rhyme of the second line though. Its very lyric. The ending is very strong as well. As for Hopes and Dreams, I thought it was a beautiful, sad story. It was well written, so it was easy for me to visualize the scene as it unfolded. Good job wolf1991, you impress me as usual.
